


Crown

by yeaka



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 12:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Martin’s comfier than the van is.





	Crown

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fair warning I’ve only seen s1. (And I love the Silmarillion but just needed a book for her to slog through.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency or The Silmarillion any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She’s actually tried reading _The Silmarillion_ half a dozen times, but it’s so dense and complicated and sometimes gets so _boring_ that she always ends up stopping, if the pararibulitis doesn’t knock it right out of her hands first. Vogel gave her a new copy yesterday—not the giant hardcover monstrosity from Todd sitting at ‘home’ on her shelf, but a tattered paperback he must’ve found on some street corner. So she’s trying again, holed up in the back of the van while three out of four of them are off doing who-knows-what. Maybe getting food. Or beer. However they do that. She doesn’t like to ask. It’s easier—and more fun—to just let it happen.

The book itself is uncomfortable. Sometimes delving into fantasy is the perfect thing—her real life being so fucked up, worse now than ever, but she used to _need_ escape more. Now this is no escape, just a way to kill the time. But she can’t keep up with all the characters in this one, and everything’s so _tragic_ , that it makes her squirm in her seat. The van’s uncomfortable. There’s a tattered sleeping bag on the floor of it that Gripps tore up yesterday for no good reason, and it makes for poor seating. Same with the metal siding. And it’s kind of hard to breathe, because Martin’s lounging in the front seat, smoking away. Which Amanda sort of likes. But it also bugs her, distracts her. She glances up to find him looking right at her, even though he said he was staying behind to watch the _van_ and keep an eye on their surroundings.

He gives her a lazy smile and sticks the cigarette back into his mouth. She wonders how ashy he tastes. Then she shakes out the idea and grunts, “Hey, come back here.”

Martin lifts one half-burnt brow and asks, “Why?”

“Just do it.”

One of the nice things with them is she never has to explain herself, because they’re crazier than she’ll ever be. Martin takes a final puff, blowing grey smoke all around himself, then blots it out on the dash and chucks it right out the window. He shifts to crawl between the seats, rattling the curtain of chains that hangs above them, and squirms into the back with her. She shifts over to tug him into place, pushing him up against the makeshift wall—he goes where she puts him. Done up in black and leather and piercings and bleach and all sorts of things that just scream _trouble_ , Martin lets her do whatever. She poses him there and turns, moving to sit between his legs. She leans back against his toned stomach, using him like a human armchair, and opens up her book again. He’s a lot better than the door was. A bit of squirming against his warmth gets her _really_ comfortable, and she lets out a contented sigh as she sinks back into the story—wherever that was. 

Martin’s chin hooks over her shoulder. His arms snake around her middle, pulling her in close. If anything, it just makes her feel safer. She feels _way_ too save with these crazies, but this is even better. Then he teases, “You into elves now, drummer girl?”

She playfully responds, “Shut up,” and devours another paragraph. It’s only a light snack instead of the hearty meal that it should be, because her mind’s actually lost in the press of Martin’s thighs against her sides, and the way his fingers tangle in her shirt. He noses at the mess of her dark hair until he’s pressed a kiss against her cheek, more tender than she’s used to from her wild boys. 

The next kiss comes to her shoulder, and then his hands are clawing at her shirt, wrenching it aside to expose more skin around her throat. He opens up around it like a full-on flesh-vampire, his teeth digging into her skin in bizarrely gentle bites. She can feel herself grinning over it, the enclosed space heating up, but she doesn’t give into it just yet. The others could be back at any minute. She pretends that she’s still reading while his hands start to roam, until they’re smoothing over her stomach and slipping underneath her shirt. 

Martin nips at her ear and breathes right into it, husky and almost growling, “Yeah?”

Somehow, she knows exactly what he means. She mumbles, “Yeah,” and his hands keep going.

They spread across her stomach, long fingers splayed to reach _everywhere_ , and they climb beneath her bra to grab and knead her breasts. Martin’s breathing seems to spike, his body burning as he cocoons around her, mouthing all down her neck and tugging at her chest. He plays with it roughly and sweetly all at once. Panting, it sounds like he’s one second away from just humping her body like a dog. Sometimes, her boys are _dogs_. But they wouldn’t mount her like one unless she asked, and he holds himself back, just toying with her front instead, while the book falls out of her hands. It never stood a chance—fantasy has _nothing_ on reality, now that she’s the Rowdy Fifth. His trail of giant, messy kisses makes it back up to her ear, and he hisses into it, “Anyone ever tell you how _damn good_ you feel?”

The sentiment is mutual. Amanda reaches under to tug at one of his wrists, pulling it out of her shirt, and she shoves it down between her legs instead. He cups her hard through her jeans, squeezing and pressing two fingers against the middle crease. Amanda moans and bucks into it, just about to give in and turn—she needs _more_ , and _now_.

But the door on the other side clatters open before she can, and Cross is jumping in. Howling like a banshee, he drops a six-pack on the floor. Gripps and Vogel are hot on his heels, scrambling inside their little haven with bags full of battered groceries. They don’t even seem to notice what they’ve interrupted until the door’s shut again, all five of them crammed into the back. Martin pulls Amanda tight against him as if to make more room, and Gripps notices first, clapping and pointing. The other two whistle loud, and Amanda tells them, “Shut up!” Even though she’s grinning. Cross pops a beer and lifts it as though to toast to her, Vogel banging on the roof. 

She could probably keep going anyway. But then it’d seem rude not to share, and the mood’s already dead. When Vogel shoves an open can into her hands, she takes it. 

Martin keeps touching her anyway, and the missing three fill her in on all their wild adventures, while her book lies to the side, forgotten.


End file.
